


Save It For the Mat

by GoldStarGrl



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fighting As Foreplay, Fingering, Floor Sex, Karate, Kissing, M/M, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26667103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldStarGrl/pseuds/GoldStarGrl
Summary: Johnny and Daniel fight for fun. Until, suddenly, they're not fighting anymore.A missing scene from 1.09.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 14
Kudos: 308





	Save It For the Mat

It sounds weird to say he missed a good fight, but it’s true.

His kids don’t exactly present a sparring challenge, not even Miguel on his best days. Beating a couple asswipes outside a convenience store was more an inconvenience than anything, and he was so drunk and off balance when it happened that every muscle in his body ached for days afterwards. 

Because, yeah, he’s a little stiffer than he used to be, can’t get his feet moving as fast, but that doesn’t mean he lost his skills. He had six days of training a week, at minimum, from the time he was _twelve._ That kind of ingrained caveman shit doesn’t go away no matter how many Coors Banquets a person drinks. His _brain_ still has reaction time like a viper, years of mounting TVs and laying tiles kept the upper body strength that could - and has – thrown a full grown woman over his shoulder with ease. He can break a board with his _forehead._

He still has a box full of trophies that say he was the best.

Well, for the most part. 

Daniel gets in a good jab, fist against his chin and knocking his head back against the top of his spine. He hooks his foot – barefoot, it’s been ages since he fought like this, the way that feels natural as breathing – around LaRusso’s ankle and drags, knocking him on his ass. 

“Come on,” Daniel says, somehow still haughty from the floor of his private fucking dojo, trying to hide his uneven breathing. “Do you only have one move?”

But he’s back up again before Johnny can even reply, and they’re off again. He’s breathing hard, and the muscles in his stomach are burning, but it feels _good_. He gets a decent kick to Daniel’s chest, and the mat is starting to feel a little sticky as a thin sheen of sweat gathers in their hairlines, down the backs of their t-shirts.

LaRusso actually _laughs_ as he stumbles back a half step. He’ll always suffer from serious baby face, but he looks truly young for a moment, the stress and disappointment gone from the dark smudges under his eyes, the lines around his smile. He has a nice smile, one that is so rarely aimed in his direction.

And then he kicks Johnny in the face. 

“Fucker!”

Five minutes turns to ten, fifteen. They find their rhythm, start blocking each other over and over and over again. They can read what's coming next almost every time, not because either of them are terrible enough to telegraph their moves, but because they can _sense_ it in the air. Because they’re still perfectly matched. Offense, defense.

Maybe that mystical balance bullshit Daniel’s always going on about isn’t _totally_ stupid. 

This split second thought, just a moment without focus, is all it takes. Daniel’s fist is in his face, hard enough he feels the familiar sting of iron, blood coming out of his nose, and then there’s a knee hard against his stomach. 

With a whoosh of air, Johnny hits the mat hard, the wind knocked out of him. Those reflexes still grab LaRusso around his stupid neck and drag him down with him, the weight of his entire body crushing Johnny from the other side as his back starts to ache.

For a second, silence rings in the room. The warm night air blows in through the paper walls. 

“Shit,” Johnny finally says, and wipes the blood from his nose off on the back of his hand. He’s had worse. It doesn’t feel broken, but the cartilage sure got smashed. “Real fun, man.”

“Sorry,” Daniel says, catching his breath. He’s still on top of Johnny, knees planted on either side of thighs. Is he trying to _pin_ him? “You need ice or something? Right, forgot who I was asking,” he adds after Johnny rolls his eyes. 

“We should go again.” He makes to sit up, but Daniel catches his wrists. 

“Johnny, chill out for a second, you went down hard. Catch your breath.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He says it without any real venom. LaRusso on top of him is kind of...nice. 

There’s a stirring between his legs that he tries to breathe away. This happened sometimes during practice, when he was a teenager and so hormonal a stiff breeze could get him going. Now….whatever, it’s just the endorphins from fighting, the friction of sparring in his jeans like an idiot, that’s making his head all buzzy and weird, like it’s a chick straddling him. 

It’s been a long, _long_ time since anyone touched him this much, this way.

Daniel blinks, hands still around Johnny’s wrists. If he can feel the pathetic beginnings of a hard-on, his face isn’t giving it away. “You not passing out in my dojo? Yeah, that’d be a great thing to avoid.”

“Please, this place is way too pretty. You need to spill a little blood, give it some character.” He tries to gesture to the delicate paper walls, the framed pictures just begging to be smashed. 

When he lifts his arm, though, Daniel reacts by tightening his grip and slamming both wrists against the mat, above Johnny’s head.

Okay. Now he’s definitely, unmistakably hard against LaRusso’s stupid designer sweatpants. 

And LaRusso, that shithead, just swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. Johnny stares up at him, trying not to do the same. Their faces are a lot closer than he realized.

“Buy a guy a drink first,” he says. Immediately he knows it was the wrong move. The blinds go down behind Daniel’s eyes, and his hands loosen. He lurches to the left, makes to roll off of him.

A deep, swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want the touching to stop. 

For a second it’s humiliating, that there’s something scrambled in his brain that makes him get hot from getting his ass kicked, _what is wrong with you, why are you always like this._

Then those killer instincts catch up. Strike first. Pick what you want and take it.

He grabs Daniel behind the knee – the one he didn’t completely fuck up, a split second move that led them all the way to this insane moment in this stupid artsy paper house thirty-four years later – and yanks him back into place, Johnny boxed in tight underneath him. 

Then he cranes his neck up and kisses him quick and hard before the silence can get any thicker.

Daniel bites down on his lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but just riding that line. No surprise there; He kisses just like he fights, pushy, with an odd grace. 

He keeps his eyes open, big and brown and a little stunned by his own daring. 

“Oh, it’s like that?” he whispers, teasing even as he shifts his weight, moves in closer so they’re chest-to-chest. He runs so _warm,_ even the tips of his fingers are hot as they slide underneath the waistband of Johnny’s jeans, under his boxers. His breath so close it’s making Johnny’s skin feel damp. 

“If I say it is.” He lowers his arm and it’s almost numb, pins-and-needles. He splays a hand across the dip in Daniel’s back, grinding his hips against him. 

Daniel wraps a hand around his cock and strokes him once, twice. He pushes Johnny’s loose jeans and underwear down a few inches. The muscles in Johnny’s face cringe – _how’d you let yourself end up so vulnerable, moron_ – but LaRusso just quirks an eyebrow and continues, assured at the strange angle to the point Johnny wonders what kind of adventures the man got into in the years between Ali and Amanda. 

A different kind of feeling starts to rise in him, dirty and squirming, and he bites Daniel’s earlobe without thinking. A punishment for what, he’s not sure. Cheating. Not doing this thirty years ago. For making him feel exposed, like something is in danger of cracking open inside him.

“Ow! What the hell, John?” He stops jerking him off, but he doesn’t remove his hand. There it is again, that stalled closeness, just touching for the sake of touching.

“I want…” it’s soft, and he swallows as much of the sentence as he can, but Daniel stills. His hand is on his chin, and the touch is so light, so _gentle,_ Johnny immediately turns his head, glaring at the mat like that’s going to stop his face from heating up. He feels like a kid. Like a chick. Like a little gir–

“Spit it out, Johnny,” there’s that little mocking twist in Daniel’s voice, scaring any weird tenderness out of the air. It doesn’t occur to Johnny that the laughing is its own defense against nerves. “I think we’re already past the point of no return.”

LaRusso might make fun of him. He’d make fun of himself. _Oh, get knocked down once and suddenly you’re dying to be someone’s little bitch? Nothing tough about lying there, taking it. Cobra Kais do not surrender control, not even for a second._

But he’s building a different kind of Cobra Kai, isn’t he? He’s _being_ a different kind. He can decide what he wants. _Still badass, if you demand it, don’t take no for answer. Right?_

Daniel’s still looking at him, running his hand so lightly over his cock he knows he’s doing it on purpose, to torture him. This is so _fucked,_ his kids, his wife, they’re all waiting for him in their perfect house, their perfect life, and he’s sweaty and out of breath and on top of Johnny. 

Pushing. 

Johnny clears his throat, tightens his grip on the fabric of LaRusso’s t-shirt. He forces himself to look at him head-on, like a man. “You’re gonna need to fuck me.”

Those big eyes get even wider. Johnny feels his toes curl in on themselves, and is about a millisecond from flipping them over and bolting into the night when Daniel dips his head, kisses him again, deeper, longer. Maybe he _is_ gonna pass out. 

“Don’t move,” he says, and Johnny actually listens. Keeps his eyes closed as the weight and heat disappear for just a second. Afraid if he opens them again this will all disappear. He hears the twist of a bottle cap coming off, smells the cold, almost medicindal scent of lube, _why does he have that in here, does he fuck his wife after sparring?_ _Is this his_ move?

But the questions get chased away as Daniel comes back, settling heavy between his legs. Johnny feels his knees jerk up like they were hit with a mallet, wraps his heels around Daniel’s ass. 

“Relax,” LaRusso’s saying in his ear, as his slick fingers move in, one, two. 

“Shit,” it stings, stretching, burning, but it doesn’t really _hurt_. Daniel fights back, sure. He’s not _vicious_. His fingers slow, twisting gently, until Johnny’s grip loosens on his shirt, getting used to it. He adds a third.

“Johnny, _relax,_ ” he says again, rubbing up against him as he screws him with his fingers, giving his hard-on something to work with. 

Johnny lets his eyes flick up to the ceiling. This is so stupid. It also makes the most sense anything has in his whole car crash of a life. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“You gotta breathe. It’s just me.”

“Like I could forget, dipshit.” The head of his cock is leaking against Daniel’s sweatshirt, and he reaches down to finish himself off fast, breathing harder, face dropping against LaRusso’s neck. 

Daniel is slow when he pushes into him, balancing on his forearms to give Johnny a little room. He sucks in air through his teeth, heel pressing hard against the back of Daniel’s knee. He comes sticky in his own fist, and his vision goes dark for a second, just the sensation of fullness and pressure and being pulled in, closer to someone than he’s been in...ever. 

Maybe, all this time, they’ve just been trying to get closer.

“Holy fuck,” he murmurs, and his throat spasms, makes the _f_ buckle, shake a little. Daniel’s thrusts start to pick up the pace, and his forehead drops, knocks against Johnny’s. He lets out a noise that he would not admit to under penalty of death was a gasp. Daniel presses in deeper, closer, closer.

“You’re telling me,” he laughs again, under his breath, and kisses the corner of Johnny’s mouth. 

Johnny can’t really form a snappy comeback, can’t really _talk_. His legs slip again, and he doesn’t have Daniel in any sort of vice grip, isn’t using the hands on his back to dig into his spine and get the upper hand.

He’s just hanging on.

So LaRusso might make fun of him. He’ll live.

It’s the best fight he’s ever lost.


End file.
